Observations
by constantinterruptions
Summary: "Shikamaru,"she said, her teal eyes soft with emotion. "Contentment is the greatest sin of all, I need to discover more."


I was standing on a bridge. It's rather shocking to think that Suna has bridges, after all one usually associates bridges to bodies of water and Suna is this festering pool of heat where only the foolhardy can survive. Whatever it is, I was standing on a bridge when I saw them or rather, I saw her. You could never miss her. She was always that one you remembered or noticed first. There was an inherent quality about her, a certain distinctiveness about her somewhat disproportionate face which carved it into the recesses of your mind and forced you to remember that calm disdain which she often exuded. She was like Galois' Theory, so deliciously simple and yet so painstakingly complicated in her simplicity, it was hard to define what she was.

A soft breeze floated through the streets. It was a shock, the wind in Suna was typically harsh, strong and brusque, a fitting metaphor for the woman it had raised. Sandy blonde hair flitted through the breeze like the threads on the arm of that Akatsuki member I had met years ago and I felt my breath catch in my throat, a lump which made it hard to swallow. She always did look good in the wind, after all she had to live up to her name as the "Sunan Wind Bitch". I remembered the time she first broke the news about her new nickname. She had breezed into the room after another A rank mission, all grace and bite. Guess what they call me now, she asked, a smirk already rising on the edge of her mouth as she hopped on to the mattress, luxuriating in the whining of the springs. I never answered these rhetorical questions of hers because of the expository I could hear that was about to be crafted on the edge of her tongue, the excitement of a new tale blooming on the horizon. A hand tried to comfort the tangle of her hair, her posture seemed too rigid, almost as if she was rather uncomfortable with the man next to her. She felt awkward, unwilling to be the carefree woman that she was, unwilling to reveal who she truly was. I know that my observation may have seemed somewhat biased but in comparison to the times we strolled down the Konohan streets, my arm slung around her waist, her hands animated and her eyes bright, the difference was obvious.

In fact, she looked bored. Her eyes may have been crinkled but the tension in her shoulders and the way she angled her body away from him, nodding her head mechanically and giving those measured laughs spelt her growing disdain for him. Was he boring you, Temari? I knew he was. The man had nothing in common with her. He was most certainly a civilian. From the thread of his step to the way he carried himself, I saw the carefree gait, the unassuming air of someone untouched and unharmed from the Shinobi service. They had nothing in common and whatever they spoke of had to be something inane, something so shallow and generic it could form a terse little bridge between the both of them. Holding back a smirk, I took another slow drag of my cigarette, flicking the ashes down to the street which they stood upon and wondered if she thought of me when he bored her like this on their various dates.

He probably never brought her dancing. Civies like him stiff and uncomfortable probably couldn't stand the fluidity of dancing. Stiff and straight-laced, someone like him simply could not indulge themselves in the joy of doing something as spontaneous and explosive like dancing, like Temari. Her hips used to sway under dim yellow lights, her purple dress flaring out like an angry peacock. She would twirl and push herself close to me on the dancefloor and we would sway together like twining vines under soft music, moving closer to one another until we melded into one organism. We had a symbiotic relationship. It was not so much dependent as it was mutually beneficial, unlike what seemed to be a one-sided affair that was happening below my feet. Temari always liked trying different things but would soon grow tired of them, yet she would continue to stubbornly insist she enjoyed them for her pride. It didn't matter, she would soon find him so irksome, tiring to maintain; she would bore of her diplomatic facade, she would be happy to leave. She always did return to her old favorites.

Right before she had left my apartment, taking her jazz records, her clothes and that chipped go set, she had told me that she wanted to see more, different perspectives and new things.

"Shikamaru,"she said, her teal eyes soft with emotion. "Contentment is the greatest sin of all, I need to discover more." She did not even apologize, she never needed to with me. And I let her go. Temari was the wind, not to be tamed and most certainly not be shackled down by another salary man. But eventually, falling leaves return to their roots and as all patterns repeat themselves, I truly believed that we would fall in love again someday.

His hand floated to her waist and she seemed to rest into his palm. And in that moment, I realized the strangeness of that sight. Temari never did that for me. Her back was always ramrod straight, poised to fight, poised for something to happen. Something bright on her hand caught the light and flashed before my eyes. She was smiling at him, she was smiling my smile at him. Her hand gently tugging at the edge of his shirt, surreptitiously straightening it from the side, her attempt at gentle domesticity which I had not seen in what seemed like an eternity.

My head whirled and my stomach was leaden. In my head, a silent movie began to play, Temari still dancing, twirling but this time out of my grasp, her heels clicking audibly against the patina of the dancefloor. She could not have. It had only been a year since us and we had been 'us' for over three years. The air felt like gelatin and each breath curdled in my throat like spoilt milk. E to the power of ix is equivalent to cosx plus sinx; she could not possibly have. S equals to KlnW, this went against all observational proof but there she was, resting into the palm of his hand, comfortable and… content.

Heartbreak doesn't feel so much like a breaking bone than a compression that squeezes your chest tight and the shocking sensation of emptiness which fills your being. I flicked my cigarette on to the street, my personal blessing to the _content_ couple.

Closing my eyes, I turned away from them back to my office and its paperwork. Her face was still plastered in my mind, that soft smile of comfort and contentment.


End file.
